Something Worse
by Inspired Workaholic
Summary: 10 years ago Sherlock made a deal with a young man in an alleyway in London, and now the Hounds of Hell have come for him to pay what he owes: his soul. But what could the great Sherlock Holmes ever need so badly he had to sell his soul to a demon? THoB
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **_So… I never expected to write a Sherlock fanfiction, or a Supernatural fanfiction, or a Doctor Who fanfiction. And now I might be writing my first attempt all at once. I'm not quite sure I'm qualified enough to write Sherlock's thought processes, but I'm going to try as hard as I can to make it accurate. At this point in time, the story is a Sherlock and Supernatural crossover, I'm not sure if I will incorporate Doctor Who or not, but I'm not going to take it off of the table either. I'm probably not the only one to think of an idea similar to this, having Sherlock encounter a crossroads demon, but I'm hoping this take on it will be different than what has been done before. _

_The story is supposed to take place (for Sherlock) around the episode "The Hounds of Baskerville" because I will be writing scenes that mirror the ones in the episode. As for where it will take place in the Supernatural time line, it will be either season 5 or season 6; I'm still trying to decide where I want to pin-point their timeline. _

_So I hope you enjoy it, reviews are most welcome but be kind, as I said this is my first attempt for either series._

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>_I don't own BBC's __Sherlock__ or the American show __Supernatural__, or any of its characters therein. _

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><p><em><strong>Something Worse<strong>_

**Chapter One**

Deep calm breaths.

Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.

Deep calm breaths.

Regulate heartbeat, redirect adrenaline from panic to brain stimulus.

Deep.

Calm.

Breaths.

…

…

No good, still panicking.

Piercing light blue eyes kept darting to every alley way, ever corner, every rooftop as Sherlock Holmes raced through London's streets. Running faster than he ever had before.

Fear. It was not something the world's only consulting detective was use to. All his life Sherlock had simply dismissed the prickling feeling in the back of his mind, the primal instinct that coursed through his veins and made every nerve end twitch, every bit of his body telling him to run when his life was in danger. But as he had often told John, it was all transport, logic would outweigh his fear, and over time Sherlock had taught himself to calm the chemical reactions that would occur during such situations. Adrenaline mostly, endorphins, and the like; weaknesses he could easily rule out when needed.

But not now, what he was running from now defied all of his logic. The facts didn't make sense, or at least in Sherlock's experience they _shouldn't_ make sense; the facts were impossible. But at this very moment, Sherlock's deductions only pointed towards two things.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Cutting the corner of another alleyway, Sherlock leaned against the cool wet brick wall, panting and trying to calm his racing heart. A map of London's streets and all the possible routes he could take was mentally being traced as he kept looking about the alley and back the way he came. There had to be a way to lose them, there just had to, a way for them to lose his scent.

Sherlock spotted the fire escape across the alley, measuring the height of the ladder with his eyes; he could make that. Darting over as quiet as possible, he calculated the trajectory and ran towards it jumping as high as he could, grasping the metal ladder and pulling it down to the ground. In a matter of seconds it was back up, and Sherlock was safely making his escape up the many ladders to the top of the apartment building. Once up top, Sherlock lowered himself until he was kneeling over the sides of the building, trying to hide his figure as best as possible. There was no way they would be able to spot him up there, in the dark; but he thought it best not to push his chances.

A low growl was heard from directly below him, and Sherlock's wide eyes betrayed his fear as he spotted them. Loud barks and snarls echoed through the empty streets, and Sherlock's breathing quickened to the point of hyperventilating. The hounds had found him, but they didn't know how to get on the roof, so they circled down below, snarling and nipping at each other in anticipation. Double sets of sharp teeth, hundreds it seemed to each one, their eyes glowed red in such an unnatural way, and they never looked away from him. They were huge as well, larger than any dog breed Sherlock had ever seen, their muscles rippling under tight hairless black skin. There were bits and pieces of them that, to all of Sherlock's knowledge of biology and zoology, were impossible. For one thing, they had four eyes, two on each side, the double sets of teeth were all sharp and strictly formed to tear apart flesh, their feet had claws much more akin to a lion or other big feline than a canine, and their tails split into two ends. They were creatures unlike Sherlock had ever seen, read, or heard about; impossible animals, and they were hunting him down, in London, in the middle of the night.

And no one else acknowledged them.

No one heard their piercing shrieks or deafening howls, only Sherlock could. Even John couldn't hear them.

After what seemed like hours, _one hour thirty-two minutes sixteen seconds_, the hounds left; sparing a few last glances towards their prey and a few feral barks as well before trotting off down the road. Sherlock tried to calm his breathing once more, his mind racing through everything that had been happening the past few weeks, and his conclusions he had drawn on his situation. For a while, his most promising idea was that he was still seeing echoes of the Hallucinogenic drug he and John had encountered in Baskerville. But after countless blood tests at St. Bart's laboratories, he couldn't deny that the drug had completely left his system. And he was still seeing a large black dog with glowing red eyes.

The quiet snarls or distant howls he heard every night, that no one else ever heard. The paranoid feeling he would get when he heard a floor board creak, or another person… or another living _thing_ breathing in the room with him, the feeling of something else's eyes watching him, all the time. Such hungry eyes.

Sherlock shook himself out of his little panic, straightened himself up, and started to cautiously make his way back down to the street. He had to make it back to 221b Baker Street, it was the only place he felt safe anymore.

After a lot of impossible research, in topics Sherlock never wanted to associate with, because they had no logical sense to him, he had drawn only one possible solution. Sherlock had made a terrible mistake a long time ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact; he had made a deal with a dangerous person… because he had been desperate. And now the Hounds of Hell were coming for him, to collect what he owed.

His soul.

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><p>He had been in University at the time, a genius graduate student with no aim; 25 years old and already fed up with life and all of the driveling boring people in it. If anyone else had heard him tell his story, about how he sold his soul to a demon in return for a form of greatness, most would assume it was his genius that was given to him. After all it would make sense, wouldn't it? How could Sherlock Holmes be that clever? How could he always know exactly what to look for, and find the answers from such small details?<p>

But they would be wrong. Sherlock Holmes had always been a genius, he had not asked for intelligence from the demon. Sherlock had grown up always being the smartest person in the room and perfected his art of observation, but it was not something others appreciated; he learned very quickly that everyone did not want to hear the impossible truth. Even if it wasn't impossible to him; he could see everything, it all made perfect sense to him. But if no one wanted to hear it, he wouldn't tell them. Sherlock was and always has been a sociopath, it became worse once he grew into a teenager and his body rebelled against his mind with hundreds of chemicals and hormones. He didn't understand the chaotic emotions of his peers, and simply shut out the ones that threatened to take over his actions. So for the few who wanted to blame his sociopathic nature on the demon, that was wrong as well.

So what did the great Sherlock Holmes need from a demon so desperately that he would sell his soul?

In college, Sherlock became bored. So bored, so utterly and deafeningly bored. His mind was something that was constantly moving, constantly working and churning and it burned behind his eyes. He had nothing to focus on, nothing to _distract_ himself from the trivial pathetic world that surrounded him. It was so predictable, so completely _un-fascinating_that he couldn't stand it anymore. As few knew about him, Sherlock had turned to drugs to keep his constant mind occupied. But it got out of hand, he had over dosed more than once; his older brother, Mycroft, had even had him sent to rehabilitation. Which almost killed him, nothing worked. Once he had been sent back home, Sherlock was right back to shooting up. He couldn't help it; his mind wouldn't listen to his own logic anymore. His body _burned _and _needed_ it so badly, and without the drugs his mind was too much to handle. The drugs had become Sherlock's crutch for life, and without them he couldn't survive. But with them he crept closer and closer to his own death.

It had been a weekend night late in March, and Sherlock could remember leaning against the brick wall of an alley not too far from Kings Cross Station. He felt like he was burning, but in reality his body was freezing; he was so pale he was blue, and so thin that emaciated would have been a better term to choose. His eyes were sunken and dark, and his curly black hair was plastered to his forehead in cold sweat. His drug dealer use to tell him he could have been very handsome in another life, like a movie star, but instead he now resembled a corpse. And he felt like one too, whenever he came down from the high. Which was rarely anymore, it caused him too much pain. He couldn't stand it, not any more, he wasn't going to make it through the night and every bit of his dying brain was telling him that.

"Wow… you are Jones-ing something terrible," came a voice from the mouth of the alley. Sherlock jerked up, bracing himself against the brick wall and watching the young man with calm ice-blue eyes. He had been on the streets, around the homeless, long enough to know not to trust anyone in a dark alley. In an instant Sherlock knew basic parameters on the newcomer. Slang and accent indicated American, New York (possibly Brooklyn, more likely Queens), age approximately 23 to 25, college art student, studying photography by the smell of hyposulfate used mostly as a fixing agent when developing photos in dark rooms. But what didn't make sense was the lack of…. Anything a tourist would have. In fact Sherlock could also smell what he thought was… sulfur? It had to be sulfur, Sherlock knew the compound and all of its properties without giving it a second thought. It was defiantly sulfur. The young man held up his hands defensively as he stepped forward, button down shirt and acid-wash jeans accenting his muscular body in all the right places. Short wavy brown hair, tan face that followed his neck line all the way past his collar bone (sun-bathing) and deep blue eyes… that suddenly went all black. Even the white of his eyes disappeared.

"What are you?" Sherlock managed to croak out, his body still rebelling against him.

The young man smiled, a sly and untrustworthy smile, and said "Most people ask _who_ are you, it's more polite." He approached Sherlock now, gliding through each step with his hands now folded behind his back. "But then again, you aren't most people, are you? _Sherlock Holmes._"

Sherlock scowled. "How do you know my name? Or where to find me?"

"Oh I knew you'd be here," the young man drawled, "twitching, sweating, itching for a _fix_. Isn't that right?" He giggled at the hard look Sherlock gave him. "Oh oh oh you must be in so much _pain_ right now, too bad your dealer is all out. And not another one for miles. Tsk tsk." He finally reached Sherlock, and crouched down to his level, Sherlock still braced against the alley wall. "… want me to help you out?"

"No." Sherlock stated, but his hands twitched a bit, betraying what he really wanted to say.

"Are you sure? I'll make it worth your while."

"Defiantly no."

"Oh hush, I didn't mean it like that," the young man laughed. His deep blue eyes bore into Sherlock's, and Sherlock never felt more exposed than he did right then. He had always laughed at the stupidity of all his peers, of all the people that surrounded him. None of them looked, none of them could see! Everyone is so easy to read, so predictable; if only people could just look. Sherlock thought he was the only one that could actually read people so accurately (besides Mycroft), but this young man… Sherlock had the feeling that he knew absolutely everything about him… and he didn't know how.

"What if I told you I could give you anything, anything you could ever want," the young man said softly to him, his smile was like that of a shark's. "For a small price, that I won't need to collect for years to come."

"I would say the price isn't really that small," Sherlock countered, trying to control his shivering. There was something wrong with the young man, something so insanely wrong that Sherlock could not see. Why couldn't he see it!

The young man laughed an amused but cruel laugh. "VERY good! Haha! I like you, Sherlock Holmes, I like you very much," if possible the young man leaned even closer. "You're right, it's not that small, it's actually kind of a big deal to you people; but if you choose to part with it… I could give you anything you want."

"What's the price?" Sherlock asked, an idea worming its way to the front of his mind, an idea that stuck him with cold _burning _fear.

"Your soul," the young man breathed. And that's when Sherlock confirmed it. The young man wasn't breathing, hadn't been breathing, the entire time he talked. Only to laugh, or when he spoke those few words. _He wasn't breathing_. How was that possible?

"I've been repeatedly told I don't have one," Sherlock countered, now he was just grasping at straws trying to not appear as terrified as he really was.

"Ah-ah, I think you do," the young man answered in a sing-song voice. "Not that you would miss it, if you were to sell it to me." He then became a touch more serious. "What if I told you I could make this pain stop, give you something so you would never have to end up like this again."

"Detox?" Sherlock tried. His brain was becoming fuzzy, from his aching body and his thoughts flooded with fear. He wasn't use to fear, to this insane amount of fear, he had never been this terrified before. He couldn't just push it away, he couldn't ignore it. It was still there, and Sherlock had no idea how to handle it.

"Not just detox. Like I said, I like you Sherlock Holmes. So I have put together a packaged deal _just for you,_ a complete Sherlock Holmes custom made rehabilitation package. I know the real reason you turned to drugs Sherlock, you were _bored_." Sherlock's eyes widened at the young man's words, as the young man just smiled all the more. "So _bored_ with the world and all the _disgustingly boring_ people in it. And your mind, it's always thinking isn't it? You needed something to keep your mind occupied. So – I'm going to give you that. I'm going to give you something to replace the drugs, to replace that constant need to stimulate your brain and keep it entertained."

"Like what?" Sherlock could barely believe what he was hearing. Something to _replace_ the drugs? There wasn't anything, even if he lived through a detox how could there be ANYTHING that would stimulate him enough to keep his focus off of the deliciously numbing affect the drugs gave him.

A wicked, knowing smile crossed the young man's features. "Let's say it's… a calling. A calling to do something worthwhile with your genius; don't worry though I won't be giving you the answers. That would be cheating, and you don't like cheating; you'll have to find the answers all on your own." Sherlock was confused, he didn't like being confused, he was never confused. "So, that's the deal," the young man drawled again. "A wonderful care package just for you; detox your body and free you of your desperate grasp to your recreational drug problem, and a calling that will replace the rush you use to feel from the drugs. Hell, I'll even heal your body up for you, _and _make it so if you ever try these drugs again the experience will be _so bad_…you'll never look back. No more drugs, no more itching, no more burning, no more aching, no more pain," the young man was so close he was practically whispering the small chant to Sherlock, who's eyes were unfocused and his mind was frantically trying to grasp the concepts the young man was telling him. But the pain was so much, his body functions were slowing down; he was going to die in that alley way tonight if he didn't find a way out. And here comes a handsome young man with his "detox package deal" that would save his life… in exchange for his soul. But it hurt so much, he closed his eyes and winced at the pain, how hard it was to breathe, how hot he felt but cold at the same time. So so cold. "What do you say?" the young man asked, his voice rich and almost seductive.

"W-What are the terms?" Sherlock managed to ask, his eyes still strong and unblinking as he stared at the young man. But his face was pale, his body holding onto itself with a painful amount of tension; he was fading.

The smile appeared again, "You get to keep your soul, for now, and in 10 years I will come and collect it. And then you will die." The young man stated matter-of-factly. "But, if you don't take my deal, you'll die here tonight. It's not a bad deal, if I do say so myself. A once in a life time offer, I don't do this for everyone you know."

"T-Then why m-me?" Sherlock demanded, his body stating to tremble uncontrollably, he was losing his battle with the pain.

"Because you already have a form of greatness," the young man answered simply. "Your intelligence is something most humans would actually summon me for, it's something they would trade their souls for. It almost feels like cheating, just giving you one thing for your soul. And I like you, I really really do." The young man's words were hungry, and Sherlock's determined mind-set had faltered at his words.

"You're n-not human, so what are y-you?" He tried to ask through the tremors. But the young man just smiled his wicked smile.

"So do we have a deal?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, this was wrong. This was so wrong but he couldn't see any other way around this. He was going to die, his body was failing, his mind had to be failing him too because he BELIEVED this young man and he was seeing facts that were impossible. This shouldn't be possible. But he had no choice. He nodded. "What do I do? Where do I sign?"

"Oh," the young man breathed, getting very close to Sherlock, starting to crawl towards him. "You don't sign with your hands," he answered, his own hands covering Sherlock's and springing a surprising warmth to his body. Sherlock couldn't back away any further, as he was still against the brick wall, and the young man's arms trapped him on either side. He was so close now Sherlock could feel his next words against his lips, "You sign with your mouth." And then he was kissing him.

The young man's lips were so cold, and hard, and wet; like melting ice cubes over Sherlock's lips. He winced at the contact, but suddenly the wetness started to tingle and hum; it was a euphoria that raced through his body, and it mimicked his blessed drug he had been so desperate for moments before. Feeling was making its way through Sherlock's body as it started to heal itself, the trembling stopped, warmth replaced the cold, and Sherlock's mind was honestly blank. All he had was the craving, the desperation for his drug that took over his mind; and the source of it was coming from the young man's kiss. And Sherlock was hungry for it. He was kissing back now, with a need stronger than he had ever felt before, practically devouring the other's mouth as his hands grasped at the young man, holding him in place and burying his fingers in his thick wavy hair. He couldn't stop, Sherlock couldn't understand why he couldn't stop. He didn't like physical contact, and he had certainly never kissed anyone like this before, but it wasn't a kiss, not really. A sudden realization hit him, as he continued to kiss the young man hungrily, _was this his detox?_

The young man shoved him away with surprising force, smirking lips red and swollen from the kiss. And then his smirk shifted to a smile, as he took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes. His skin had returned to a healthy color, pale but no longer blue with cold. He was no longer emaciated either, not necessarily a healthy thin but it was the best he could do. Curly mop of black hair had gotten back its sheen, and eyes wide and alert and pupils nearly non-existent as the endorphins still coursed through him. Lips parted and panting, also bruised from the kiss. The young man stood up, hands holding onto Sherlock's forearms and bringing him to his feet with such strength that it was… _inhuman_.

"Go home, Sherlock Holmes, and don't forget the debt you owe," the young man answered, starting to walk away.

"Wait," Sherlock demanded, his mind starting to clear, and he followed him to the mouth of the alleyway. The young man stopped in the street and turned back to him. "You never answered me, what are you? Who are you?"

The young man snickered to himself. "All that and you never asked me my name, such a naughty boy," he taunted. "My name is Crowley, and I'm a demon. A cross-roads demon, to be precise." Sherlock didn't falter.

"What cross-roads?" he demanded again.

Crowley merely gestured with his hand to the crossroads he now stood in the middle of. "And I thought you were supposed to notice everything," he said exasperatedly. "Don't forget, Sherlock Holmes, you owe me your soul. 10 years." He added with a smirk, and then disappeared, right in front of Sherlock's eyes.

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><p>Sherlock couldn't deny what had happened, as much as he wanted to. Because in the span of 12 hours he had gained 15 pounds, a light sun tan, and was completely drug free. He no longer craved, he no longer burned, and as he wondered about all of it he certainly wasn't bored. Everything Crowley had told him would come true had, the mere thought of shooting up made his stomach churn. But what about the last thing? The "calling" Crowley had promised him.<p>

It wasn't until the next afternoon, when he was in the lab at St. Bart's testing his blood for the fourth time for any sign of a detox medicine or the drug he _knew_ he had shot up less than 24 hours ago that should still be in his system. Mike Stamford had come in to grab some supplies for his next class and had the paper under his arm, and had set it down close enough that Sherlock glanced at it for a second. Just a second. But then he couldn't take his eyes off of it. The headline read TRIPLE MURDER BRIXTON and had a picture of an old two story house latticed with crime scene tape. Before he realized what he was doing he had picked up the paper and skimmed the article; he eyes left the page in confusion. Why had he done that? He hated the news, every crime he read about was so transparent he could never believe that Scotland Yard couldn't figure it out. Idiots, every single one of them.

So why did he have the sudden urge to go straight to the yard and tell them that to their faces?

"Crazy murders, yeah?" Mike said to him, noticing he had the paper. "They've been looking for the guy who did it for weeks, but they've had no leads whatsoever-"

"That's because it's the detective inspector that's on the case," Sherlock answered, still skimming the article and cataloging the facts. Mike Stamford's eyes went wide.

"A-Are you sure?" he stammered. Sherlock gave him a dead-pan look, Mike was one of the few people who knew about his observations and deductions. "…Could you prove it?" Mike asked more carefully. Sherlock's look was incredulous, as if saying 'how dare you even ask that' as he opened his mouth to start on his (what had to be) long rant about how he knew the head DI for the case was actually the murderer, Mike interrupted "NOT TO ME! You should…. If you know who did it, and how, you should tell them." He pointed to the paper, but was indicating the Scotland Yard. Sherlock thought about it for a second, and wasn't entirely sure why he was even considering Mike's suggestion. He never helped anyone, never talked about his deductions; he had learned long ago no one wanted to hear them.

But maybe, even if they didn't want to hear them, they needed to.

Sherlock found himself at the New Scotland Yard not half an hour later, walking inside with only a slight air of hesitation. "Can I help you?" a woman at the front desk asked him politely.

"I need to speak to someone about the Brixton murders," he demanded, though with an air of aloofness that confused the receptionist.

"I'm sorry? Are you with the press?" she asked cautiously.

"No, I'm not. I have some information relative to the case," Sherlock explained with an annoyed sigh. He should have just walked right past her and into the offices instead, this was going too slowly.

"Oh? Okay, I'll call DI Milton-"

"NO, no, no. Not Milton I need to talk to someone else," Sherlock interrupted.

"B-But he's the lead DI on the case-"

"I know." Sherlock interrupted. "Someone else, please," the last word had no politeness in it at all, just another annoyed sign. The receptionist pursed her lips and rang for someone else. After a few moments, a tall man with slightly graying brown hair appeared around the corner, came up to Sherlock and shook his hand.

"I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestarade, you have some information on the Brixton murders?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled a little half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, I know the identity of your murderer."

DI Lestrade looked skeptical and amused at the same time. "Oh really? And how, pray-tell, do you know that?"

"I don't know, I saw."

Lestrade blinked, "… you mean you were there?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, do keep up, I saw the answer in the paper. It's right there, you have all the facts you need."

Lestrade, a little taken back, paused and began again, "Alright, explain it to me."

Sherlock smirked, a familiar feeling of euphoria coursing through him, and told him everything.

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><p><em>Please review, let me know what you thought, and look for the next chapter in about a week. Latest will be next Wednesday.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** _Wow I can't believe all the favorites and story alerts this got. Thank you all so much, and thanks to the four people who reviewed as well, lots of smiley faces! I hope you will like this Chapter as well, no Crowley this time, but he'll make another appearance next chapter._

_Also I have the timelines all figured out; for Sherlock his "present day" is between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall, and the "three months ago" will be just before Baskerville. Baskerville will either be next chapter or the one after. And I may or may not be adding The Fall into the end, I'm going to see where this takes me. As for Supernatural this is going to be the very beginning of Season 6, but this story will have massive spoilers for the rest of that season. I won't be going into Season 7, for people who aren't caught up on that yet; but this story will have a lot of Crowley in it, and Crowley had a lot of activity in Season 6. King of Hell and all that. So yes, spoilers all around._

_I will only be updating once a week, I'm in University right now and I'm way behind as it is; watching too much Doctor Who. But it will be a set day: I will update every Tuesday night. Whether it shows up here that night or Wednesday morning is not up to me, I've learned long ago that this site isn't the most reliable of deadlines. _

_So once again, thanks to everyone who is watching the story and for the reviews. Reviews make me VERY happy, so please feel free to leave one and let me know what you think._

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>_I don't own BBC's __Sherlock__ or the American show __Supernatural__, or any of its characters therein. _

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><p><em><strong>Something Worse<strong>_

**Chapter Two**

_Present Day_

Sherlock crept as quietly as he could up the stairs towards his and John's flat, skipping the steps that creaked and pressed against the wall as his eyes still flicked over everything he had come to know and recognize. His mind still racing and the adrenaline in his system running rampant and out of his control, he couldn't calm down and he couldn't push back the fear. The constant fear that was strung across his mind like giant cobwebs.

He followed the wall through the sitting room, ignoring the lights and taking in everything all at once. They had gotten into the flat before, he could hear them, especially when he thought- no, _knew_ he was supposed to be alone. For months, they had been watching him. He couldn't give in to the shadows now. He kept following the wall, kept looking around and not daring to even blink, and made it to his bedroom, stepping carefully over a line of black dust placed on the floor across the doorway like a barrier. Only in the safety of his room did he dare to turn on the light, the echoing silence that had been pressing in around him shattered with the click of the light switch. There had never been a more comforting sight than that of his empty room. Every book still in place, every abandoned piece of paper strewn across the floor, the poster of the periodic table of elements hung behind his door, and the single window that had the same black dust across the window sill. And the curtains drawn, they knew which room was his.

Sherlock fell to his bed and stared at the ceiling, still in his normal day clothes now soaked with rain and sweat; he crinkled his nose at the thought. He really needed a shower, but he couldn't leave his room yet until he knew it would be safe to do so. He didn't want John to be any more suspicious than he already was. Sherlock had thought about telling John, once he knew what he was up against and could explain everything to him; but he still had a few pesky details he needed to work out before informing his best friend and flatmate. Besides, he wouldn't be informing John for his safety. Sherlock wasn't worried about John, the hounds weren't interested in John, only him; so for now all Sherlock had to worry about was himself. Keeping himself alive, if only for a while longer.

He had to formulate a plan, or at least a short term one, his long term plan only had very small holes. He knew his time was up soon, in only a few days, and he wasn't sure how long he could cheat the hounds. They seemed eager to cut his time short, they certainly wouldn't be holding back once his 10 years was complete. But it wasn't time yet, not yet.

He steadied his breathing, folding his hands together, fingertips under his chin in what had become his pose of deep thought. There was so little time left, he had learned a lot since that day; the day he had finally accepted what was happening to him was beyond his realm of control. But he should have accepted it when the growls first started. Crowley shouldn't have had to come back and remind him of what was coming. Sherlock felt nothing but annoyance towards the demon, he now accepted that fact and directly called him that instead of his name on most occasions. His research showed him it was just a name that the demon had chosen for itself, a cleverly picked one at that; not that Sherlock would give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

The sounds of the flat echoed around him, and it was oddly calming. The generator hummed on the floor below, John's soft snores from the room above, the faint sounds of traffic from the busy London streets outside his window, faint barking-

That was growing louder. Sherlock sat up on the bed in an instant; eyes wide and staring at the curtains across his window unblinkingly and dangerously tense. His fingers clutched on to his bedspread so tightly his knuckles turned white, and he focused all of his hearing on the barking. His trained ears suddenly cataloged the bark as a known breed and not what had been haunting him for the past few weeks. He sighed, annoyed at his fear, and fell back on to his bed. He _would not_ end up like the others, he would not lose hold of reality. Calming himself he started going over the facts of his first case that dealt with the hounds, to remind himself of what could happen if he let the fear take hold of him for too long.

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><p><em>Three Months Ago<em>

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, though John had called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was closer and more distinct now as he entered the flat, Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the sofa. Laying down with his fingers posed together under his chin, thinking deeply about the case that had been e-mailed to him earlier that morning. A sigh was heard as John spotted him, and Sherlock heard him move across the sitting room floor towards the kitchen. "You know I can't hear you from all the way down stairs if you just grunt in response."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed again shortly. He practically heard John roll his eyes as he took the groceries into the kitchen. His lips twitched into a smirk for a moment before he fell back into his thoughts. The nicotine from the patches on his arm flowed through his limbs like a slow but steady river, so that when he lay absolutely still for a few moments it would over power his senses and it would be as if all feeling in his body would drift into nothingness. _Transport_. All that was left was his mind, and he could focus intently without distractions. The slightest twitch, the slightest movement, even when he responded to John the world around him would crash back into existence… and he would lose his train of thought.

Now where did it go…

"So how is that case going?" John called from the kitchen. "The one you got this morning?"

If it had been anyone else that had asked him Sherlock would have just ignored them, or responded something along the lines of "It would be going better if you would stop talking to me," only more brutal depending on the person. But this was John, and Sherlock had found that answering his countless questions and explaining them in detail to the army doctor actually helped reveal hidden facts in the case and gave him new ideas as well as excluding old ones. It didn't stop his annoyance at being interrupted from his thoughts again, but it kept him from lashing out at his flat mate. Most of the time.

Sherlock sighed in his annoyance, bringing his hands up to his forehead and rubbing at his temples. "Frustrating," he grumbled in his deep baritone. "Border-line boring," he added a little more clearly. "Inconclusive at the moment, it depends on what we find out at the hospital." He swung his legs around and rose to his feet in one swift movement; now that John was home they could go.

"The hospital? You mean you're actually going to go visit her?" John asked, realizing Sherlock had only gotten up because he was about to drag them both across London. This made John start to put away the groceries _a lot _faster. "I thought her husband- what was his name?- Mr. Sutton had e-mailed you everything she said happened."

"I prefer to conduct my own interviews," Sherlock replied, tying his blue scarf around his neck and grabbing his coat. "Are you coming or not?" he called as he strode back through the sitting room and making his way down the stairs.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming! Just a mo- DAMNIT! SHERLOCK!" John ran to the top of the stairs and called down to him, not seeing him there anymore he assumed he had already left out the door and down the street. John sighed and rested his hands on the door frames at the top of the stairs, trying to decide if he should run after him _just to tell him_ that he couldn't come along to the hospital, or just text him. That was until a head of dark curly hair appeared around the corner a moment later and scared the life out of him. "Sherlock! Damnit you nearly gave me-"

"Yes I heard you, now you said you were coming?" Sherlock answered impatiently.

"That's what I meant, I have to go into the surgery; Sarah called me while I was at Tesco's, they're very short staffed right now," John tried to explain.

"Fine, come when you're done," Sherlock replied shortly and disappeared from the bottom of the stairs.

"But I don't know how long I will be, Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" This time John did follow him down the stairs, but by the time he looked out the door Sherlock wouldn't be there. For some reason taxis always spotted Sherlock and he could flag them down faster than any other person John knew. Sherlock was already in the cab and being driven away by the time John leaned out the door of 221b and was looking for him.

Sighing in a short huff, Sherlock pushed away the negative thoughts flowing through him that John was abandoning him for Sarah and surgery once more, and instead focused on the case. Everything was so much easier to deal with when it was about the case.

The woman at the hospital, Mrs. Amanda Sutton, was going insane. A perfectly normal woman, a perfectly normal but slightly extraordinary woman; 35, natural blonde, average height, average weight, completely devoted to her family and her job, for which she excelled at both. A talented artist who painted landscapes that sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars. She made more money than her husband, who was the C.E.O. of an extremely large pharmaceutical company. And now she was hallucinating a giant black dog was following her.

According to her husband, it had started out very normal; they had called animal control, yelled at the authorities that were supposed to be finding a stray large dog wandering around the gated community they lived in. But then she became paranoid, intensely so, dabbling in the occult and claiming it was an omen of her death. Now she was sectioned in the psychiatric ward at St. Bart's hospital for trying to kill herself; though she claims she did no such thing, and it was the dog that was after her that slit her wrists. And this had all happened in six days. Insanity was not something that Sherlock liked to deal with, by the very definition it made no logical sense and Sherlock could not deduce some important things about a mentally unstable person. He could deduce many things, but not as many as he normally could.

But this progressed too fast; it had to be a drug or a poison that was causing his client to lose her mind. Also the information given to him by her idiot husband was just that, Sherlock could have found all of that by googling her name. In fact he had, and had found out a few more dry cataloged facts. She sold her first painting almost 10 years ago, and became what would be called a cliché "over-night success". Before that, Sherlock had found no history of art classes or previous works of art or collections or portfolios. She had been a bland, normal, _boring_ secretary for her husband. They had married nine years ago and had now had twin eight-year-old girls. For the past ten years she had had a perfect life, so perfect it made Sherlock gag.

But there was nothing that said anything _about_ her. How was Sherlock supposed to figure out who poisoned her if everyone told him lies about how perfect this woman was. Sherlock had narrowed down about six possible ideas; most having to do with revenge on this woman, the other two were accidents that could have happened. It would all depend on how much people had lied to him so far.

Or how stupid they really were.

When Sherlock arrived at St. Bart's the receptionist was surprised to see him walk in the opposite direction of the science labs and almost looked like she was about to stop him. Sherlock smirked at the thought, how anyone in this building tried to stop him from his activities anymore was amusing to him. Predictable, but still amusing; it was nice of them to keep him on his toes. Sherlock entered the hospital psychiatric wards and brushed past the pesky receptionists and nurses that tried to ask him who he was and why he was there. One in particular was actually following him, but he spotted Mr. Sutton down the hall in his pin-stripe suit and just chose to ignore her.

"Ah, M-Mr. Holmes," he stuttered in surprise, talking Sherlock's hand and shaking it. "I didn't expect you to come and visit, it's very kind of you-"

"I assure you this wasn't for pleasantries," Sherlock interrupted. "The information you sent me was too basic, I need more data and the only way to achieve that is to speak with your wife directly." He spoke very quickly and kept moving towards Mrs. Sutton's room as he did. Mr. Sutton trailed behind in confusion and slight panic; as did the nurse that was still following him. Annoying.

"B-But she's not supposed to be seeing anyone, Mr. Holmes!-"

"The patient isn't allowed visitors at this time, she isn't stable enough-"

Sherlock sniffed at the meaningless dribble that was shouted at him as the three reached Mrs. Sutton's door, and Sherlock just let himself inside. Mrs. Sutton had received no injuries that weren't related to her attempted suicide, so the prohibition of visitors was for her mental state; an unnecessary precaution made by fumbling doctors and over-apprehensive nurses. Sherlock had never really thought much of doctors, in fact the only medical opinion he really respected was John's, but he wasn't here…

"Who are you?"

Turning around to face the patient buried under blankets on the hospital bed, Sherlock was surprised to be… taken aback not only by Mrs. Sutton's appearance, but by how quiet her voice was. She had asked in a scared whisper, her fear shining in her wide eyes; she was pale and waxy, hair in a stringy mess of unkempt curls. Sherlock noted everything in those few second of pause; smudges of ink on her fingers indicated not only was she left handed but she had been writing something with a pen that needed to be refilled with ink and her hands had been shaking so bad she not only spilled it on her fingers but on the bed sheets as well (she was making corrections to her will), medical charts on the end of the bed had lots of writing on them (filled pages, and lots of them) meant her condition was getting worse and the doctors had no idea what was wrong (so they keep writing every meaningless thing down in hopes something will jump out at them), current physical state (rapid but irregular heartbeat, dark circles around eyes, twitching but slow motor reflexes, lack of personal upkeep that had been routine for her previously) showed Sherlock she was _scared out of her mind_… but not at him, and-

"You haven't slept in six days," Sherlock replied back more softly than he meant to, he was a little astonished. His personal record was only four and a half days, but that had been long ago and had been a very trying case. Even Sherlock knew after three days his memory functions would start to fail him if he didn't give his body rest.

Carefully Sherlock walked towards the bed, like approaching a scared and wounded animal; it didn't help though, Mrs. Sutton shrank under her covers, her whole form even more tense than it had been before. Her sleep deprived body was in a lot of pain.

"Tell me," Sherlock said quietly, aware that his deep baritone would be to alarming if he spoke too loudly. Mrs. Sutton shook her head, she didn't want to speak again. _Why?_ "Tell me what you are so afraid of," Sherlock continued, there was no chair and standing at his full height was frightening her more. He lowed himself, to a crouching position by her bed, looking at her near eye level now as his knees touched the tile floor. "Why won't you let yourself sleep?"

There was a few moment of pause, as Mrs. Sutton's wide and bloodshot eyes bore back into Sherlock's ice blue ones. He focused on her intently, so she knew he wasn't leaving until she answered, but his mind was racing. There was something wrong with this case, there was nothing he could think of that would cause this. This normal woman who six days ago started hallucinating a black dog was after her, and hadn't slept sense because of it. Her doctors were morons; Sherlock didn't need John next to him to know EVERYTHING was the cause of her lack of sleep. Except the dog, the paranoia, and the fear. _Why was she so scared?_

"The hounds are after me," Mrs. Sutton whispered, tears were shining in her eyes as she spoke, like as soon as she said the words everything became real. She breathed a shaking sob, and the tears spilled from her eyes silently. "I-It's all my fault, I should've just let them take me." Her eyes looked up at the door, to where her husband kept looking through the window in worry. "I didn't want him to remember me like this," her voice broke at the last word and as she breathed her quiet sobs started escaping her trembling lips. Sherlock couldn't understand the source of the emotions, but he did see that they were making her much more lucid; she was sane for the first time in days. He had seen it before, with death row inmates…

Sherlock pushed his confusion back, it was getting extremely annoying, and focused on trying to work out the puzzle before him.

"Why are you the hounds after you?" he asked in the same tone he had before, determined but quieted for Mrs. Sutton's benefit.

The woman smiled a bit, her eyes still shining in tears, "Thank you for not telling me that the hounds aren't real. You're the first person to do that."

"It didn't need to be established again, clearly you think they are," Sherlock answered.

"And you only think they aren't because you can't see them, or hear them… clearly," her eyes darted from the door to the window and then back at Sherlock. "Y-You-" her voice cracked, she cleared her throat, and asked again in the saddest and most _broken_ tone Sherlock had ever heard, "You really can't hear them, can you?"

Sherlock felt a little tug in his chest that he couldn't push away, he had only last felt it a few weeks ago… when Mrs. Hudson had been crying and taken hold of his coat sleeve… when the Americans had held her captive in their flat. He had explained it to John later, and he said the phrase most people use when they feel this way is that their _heart is breaking_. An adequate description, he supposed, now that he felt it again and knew what it was suppose to be this time. He still didn't like it though, and tried to ignore it as best he could.

More tears were spilling from her eyes, Sherlock had to keep getting information out of her. What would John tell him to do (leave her alone, probably), okay what would _John_ do himself if he was conducting this interview. Without even thinking twice about it, Sherlock offered his hand and she grasped it like it was a life line. She smiled through her tears, but didn't look directly at him; embarrassed but grateful.

It was strange, now that he thought about it, if Sherlock ever needed an example of how to act in situations like this… emotional situations that he himself couldn't grasp… his example was always John. His faithful blogger…

"What can you hear?" Sherlock asked her after a few moments, giving her a pause to collect herself.

She swallowed audibly, and spoke again in that quiet voice, like she was afraid she was being over-heard. "Barking, snarls, growls, howling sometimes… and scratching. At the door, and the window." She looked at the window as she said it, her eyes widening and looking away a second later. Her pulse was so fast Sherlock could see the vein throbbing in her neck. She was trying to calm herself down, and the grip she had on Sherlock's hand was tightening to the point of pain.

When it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate, Sherlock continued prying, "Do you know why they are after you?" He asked, using the same words she had earlier to keep the focus on her hallucinations.

She laughed a broken laugh, the tears never ceasing, "Because I was young and stupid once." How cryptic, Sherlock resisted the urge to scowl at her words, he hated riddles. "B-Because," she gasped again, her voice no longer the quiet scared tone. "Because my time is up." She was no longer sobbing, the tears just spilled from her eyes silently, and she stared off into nothingness. "Because it's been ten years, a _wonderful_ and _brilliant_ ten years," she smiled at the words, Sherlock could tell she was thinking of her husband and children and glittering career, her "perfect" life. She was smiling at the memories, like there would never be anymore, and that tugging feeling returned in Sherlock's chest. There was an acceptance in her face as she continued to talk, continued to hold onto Sherlock's hand, but may not have known he was still there, "and now… I have to pay what I owe." The words struck Sherlock hard, _ten years, pay what you owe_. "But I-I… I think I'm ready now," her voice had gotten soft again, and Mrs. Sutton looked at Sherlock once more. "I tried to fight it, because I had forgotten about it, and look where that got me," she laughed a soft laugh. "But now, I'm just so tired…" Her eyes drifted to where her hand was grasping Sherlock's, and still holding on she turned her hand over.

All the way up her arm were jagged and angry red slashes, stitched together but clearly in three long lines up the length of her forearm. Spaced apart in a pattern that was _exactly_ like claws, like very sharp and _very large claws_. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight, and he looked back up into Mrs. Sutton's eyes, her calm but tear filled eyes.

"I'm not going to fight it anymore," she admitted softly.

* * *

><p>Two days later there was a large respectful obituary for Mrs. Amanda Sutton; loving wife and mother of two girls, visionary painter and a wonderful woman. Everyone had nothing to say but kind words about her, and it had always been that way. Autopsy showed no signs of poison or drug, Sherlock Holmes himself had done a countless number of tests trying to find a root cause for her week long mental collapse. But she had died of natural causes.<p>

Sherlock had gotten Molly to show him and John her body, and the report she had written up on cause of death. Sherlock pointed the marks on her arms out to John, explaining how they _couldn't_ have been self inflicted and were indeed made from some unknown animal.

John had read off from the autopsy report that Mrs. Sutton's heart had failed her, a few major arteries had split and one of the chambers had collapsed. The simultaneous reactions would have been her heart exploding in her chest; her heart had been beating out of control just moments prior according to the hospital logs. John had looked up at Sherlock, with a strange expression on his face as he told Sherlock and Molly what that meant.

Mrs. Sutton had been scared to death.

* * *

><p><em>I think I'll leave it there this time. Until next week; and please please review and let me know how I'm doing so far?<em>


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